by Evelyn James
She had barely constructed the outline of the window in faint strokes of lead when she was disturbed.
“Miss Fitzgerald?”
Clara restrained a sigh and looked up. Beside her stood Madeline Reeve, the pretty girl who looked straight off the page of a fashion magazine. She had her hair crimped in the latest style and was tastefully ornamented with kohl about the eyes. Clara’s mind swept back to the receptionist at the hotel who had attempted the same effect and failed dreadfully. Where hers had looked false and gaudy, Madeleine’s make-up looked natural and perfectly composed for her face. She was slender enough to carry off the current fashions for straight-waists, and she was wearing a smart green dress and matching shoes. She had white lace gloves on her hands and a parasol open and resting on her shoulder, preventing the sun from colouring her pale as snow skin. In short, Madeleine was the sort of woman who, without apparent effort, was able to look perfect at all times, and who annoyed Clara simply for this.
Clara had to admit she was never going to be the slenderest of creatures. She was not fat, but she had decided curves which were completely out of fashion. She was not inclined to cut her hair skimpily short and she had never had much mastery of make-up. Clara was never going to be a fashion model and a part of her resented those women who, without a pinch of sacrifice, achieved what she could not and flaunted it. That did not mean she disliked Miss Reeve, far from it. She just desired to feed her cake, a lot of it.
“Miss Reeve,” Clara set her sketching book down, she sensed this was going to be a long conversation. As she looked over her shoulder at Madeleine she noticed that Edwin Hope was also present and looking anxious. He was smoking like there was no tomorrow.
“I must speak with you at once,” Madeleine Reeve continued. “I overheard Miss Plante talking with you and I think it most important I explain my position to you.”
“This isn’t necessary, Maddy,” Edwin Hope gruffed from behind them.
“It is Teddy. We can’t ignore the fact that Mrs Hunt has passed in strange circumstances. I heard that you are investigating the matter Miss Fitzgerald?”
Clara gave an inward sigh. So the cat was out of the bag.
“Before she passed Mrs Hunt asked me to investigate her fears that someone wished her harm,” she admitted.
“I suppose it seems she was right,” Madeleine said. “And you are looking to see who might have had cause to hurt her?”
“In essence, yes,” Clara nodded.
“I thought the police were calling this an accident,” Edwin Hope interrupted, sounding most unamused by the whole affair.
“The police can think as they please,” Clara said carefully. “My duty is to Mrs Hunt and if it happens I turn up something that changes the circumstances of her death and causes the police to reassess the case, so be it.”
It had not slipped Clara’s notice that the names of both Edwin Hope and Madeleine Reeve had featured on Mrs Hunt’s list. As much as she would have liked a quiet afternoon to enjoy the vistas of Furness Abbey and her drawing, she could not pass up this opportunity to speak to potential suspects.
“What would you like to talk about, Miss Reeve?” she asked the girl who stood beside her. She was probably no more than twenty or twenty-one, while Hope was a few years her senior. They were perhaps lovers, certainly they seemed an obvious match.
“As I say I overheard Miss Plante talking to you, not that I was eavesdropping, it was simply that I was passing along the bank and there is a little stand of gorse bushes which quite masks a person from sight,” Madeleine Reeve hesitated. “I heard you talking about justice and investigating the circumstances of Mrs Hunt’s death. I heard you say that while you had no affection for the woman, you still cared to find out the truth. And I heard Miss Plante mention how murder could be justifiable.”
“Rarely is murder justifiable,” Clara told her calmly. “Self-defence being, perhaps, the only time murder can be considered an option. Might you care to explain why this troubles you so Miss Reeve? Did you happen to know Mrs Hunt before this trip?”
Madeleine Reeve pulled a face, showing that the very name of that woman was disagreeable.
“That is what I wish to discuss. Mrs Hunt was known to both myself and Edwin, in quite unfortunate circumstances. It struck me that were you to become aware of these circumstances you might naturally wonder if either myself or Teddy had reason to murder the woman.”
“That is a very serious statement,” Clara said, a touch surprised by the declaration. “But, if it helps you to speak, I might add that Mrs Hunt had constructed a list of names and yours was on it.”
“A list of suspects?” Edwin Hope spluttered, his cigarette tumbling from his mouth.
“I did not say that. I just said that Mrs Hunt had written out a list of names that were clearly significant to her. Exactly what that significance was now eludes me.”
“Then perhaps I can shed some light on the matter,” Madeleine Reeve said, while behind her Hope groped in the grass for his lost cigarette. “Mrs Hunt was known to me and to Teddy, because, many years ago, she was my governess.”
Clara nodded. Mrs Hunt had mentioned working in schools and was a tutor to the late daughter of the Wignells. That she had also tutored Miss Reeve came as no real surprise.
“I should here state how much I detested the woman. She was most awful and to a child as young as I was seemed quite a tyrant. She ruled my little schoolroom with a wicked hand. I was not allowed to talk during lessons unless asked a direct question. I was not to fidget. I was to keep a clean workbook and avoid ink smuts and smudges. She would beat my hand with a ruler when I failed in this. Should I falter in any of my lessons, or be slow in my work I was denied meals, which she imagined would cure my tardiness. She took no consideration of the fact that some of the work was beyond me, or that I had failed to understand the lesson. No. All errors on my part were due to idleness or defiance, and so were to be punished,” Madeleine Reeve paused, the memories of those dark years filling her with sadness. “I was alone in this torment, though Edwin is my brother, he is older by some years and was already away at school.”
Edwin, at this introduction, placed a comforting hand on his sister’s shoulder.
“Had I known how my sister suffered I would have done something, Miss Fitzgerald,” he said firmly.
Clara thought the sentiment very loyal and honourable, but rather doubted there was much Edwin could have done. There were not so many years between him and his sister, despite Madeleine’s words. He would have been but a boy during that time.
“If Mrs Hunt had merely been my despicable governess I don’t suppose all these years later I would be giving it much thought,” Madeleine continued. “Many girls have awful governesses, but they don’t go about killing them. Not that I killed her, but supposing you are looking for motive…”
“I understand,” Clara said swiftly, seeing the panic on Madeleine’s face.
The girl relaxed.
“Mrs Hunt did far worse to me and Teddy. You see, my mother and father were besotted with one another, so much that they hardly noticed their children. I resented that too as a child, especially when Teddy was at school and I felt very alone. Then, a terrible thing happened, my father was thrown from his horse and died. My mother was beside herself with grief. She had no friends in the county, for her life revolved around my father and her family were far away and not much inclined to come down and mourn with her. After the inevitable funeral she was left alone with her sorrows and turned to the only person in the house who was not precisely a servant – my governess, Mrs Hunt.
“She would ask Mrs Hunt to have tea with her in her room and there she would talk about my father. I sometimes used to slip and sit outside the door and listen to them, for there was nothing else to do in the afternoons and Mrs Hunt would merely set me some reading while she went to tea. I think at first she appreciated the privilege and indulgence of this afternoon ritual. It made her feel above the other servants and special. Bu
t she was not a kind woman and gradually my mother’s talk of my father and her constant sorrow wore down Mrs Hunt’s patience.
“I remember sitting outside the door to the drawing room one day and overhearing them. My mother was weeping and saying that maybe she ought to kill herself too, so she might be with my father, rather than living with her grief. That was one of her regular refrains. She was always talking about killing herself. Usually Mrs Hunt placated her, but on that day she was clearly sick of the talk and, forgetting her station, she informed my mother quite boldly that perhaps it would be best for all of them if she did. Why not, she told my mother, why not do it?
“There was an awful silence after that and I feared someone might be coming to the door, so I ran away. Later that afternoon my mother went to the little pavilion in the garden and hung herself.”
Madeleine took a very shaky breath, her words had become heavy with emotion as she spoke.
“I am so very sorry,” Clara said gently, meaning every word. Having lost her own parents, she knew the toll it took. Admittedly she had been an adult when they had passed in tragic circumstances, the lost to a child had to be wholly greater.
“You cannot imagine the turmoil it caused,” Edwin Hope had taken up the thread of the story. His face was set in a rigid expression of grief. “Mrs Hunt took charge of the proceedings, no doubt people were grateful for that. We had no grandparents, they were deceased, so we had to be sent away to various distant relations. Cousins, and such. Mrs Hunt ensured we were legally adopted by these relatives, perhaps she thought that was her duty. Our names were changed to match our new families. Maddy went to one end of the country, I to the other and for many years we had no knowledge of where the other was. Can you imagine the cruelty? To have just lost both parents and then to be torn from one another?”
Madeleine clutched her fingers to her mouth, as if she might allow a sob to escape otherwise. Her gaze, however, was far from emotional when she looked up at Clara.
“For that we hated Mrs Hunt. It took Teddy months to track me down once he came of age and was allowed the legal freedom to do so. The authorities kept things very hushed and the cousins he had been sent to did not speak with the cousins I was with. It must have seemed nearly impossible.”
“It was nearly impossible,” Teddy admitted. “The lawyers were cagey because Maddy was under twenty-one and they wanted me to prove who I was. That meant getting the adoption papers off my new parents and having to explain what I was about. They were not best pleased because they had never seen eye-to-eye with the branch of the family who had adopted Maddy. They didn’t want anything to do with them and feared me trying to track them down would result in just that. It was a nightmare, and Mrs Hunt was at the heart of it all.”
“It must have come as a shock, then, to board the charabanc and see your nemesis sitting there,” Clara said, having an idea of the response she would get.
“Not precisely,” Madeleine spoke, she had composed herself and was no longer in danger of shedding tears. “You see, Mrs Hunt wrote to us both, actually sent us the tickets for this trip. She said she wanted to make up for her past sins. I thought that an odd word for her to use. Mrs Hunt was never very religious.”
“She sent the tickets to our adopted parents’ homes. I suppose that was the only means she had of contacting us,” Teddy added. “They passed the tickets and the accompanying letters on to us. I must admit I felt very angry reading those letters.”
“I was angry too,” Madeleine was not to be left out of expressing her feelings on Mrs Hunt. “However, the woman’s letter was so pleading and apologetic that I thought we must come. It sounded so much in the letter as if she was dying.”
“Only, when we boarded the charabanc, she didn’t even seem to recognise us,” Teddy shook his head. “Let alone try and apologise. I don’t know, maybe when she saw us she no longer felt able to speak.”
“Or perhaps she really didn’t recognise you. It must have been several years since she last saw either of you, and people change considerably as they grow,” Clara suggested.
Edwin Hope and Madeleine Reeve exchanged a look, perhaps trying to assess how much they had changed since all those years ago.
“I imagine the purpose of this conversation was to press upon me your innocence in all matters concerning Mrs Hunt’s accident?” Clara decided to take the hunt to them. They were suspects after all and had just made a very strong case for motive.
“Neither of us laid a finger on the woman!” Madeleine said sternly, clearly alarmed by Clara’s suggestion.
“We knew you were investigating this matter, and it seemed wiser to own up to our association than to let you discover it and wonder what we had to hide,” Edwin quickly interjected. “We were with each other at the time Mrs Hunt died, anyway.”
Clara merely smiled, well aware of how insubstantial their alibi was. After all, they were both suspects and any sensible barrister would point out that it was to their advantage to alibi each other. To do anything else would be odd. It didn’t prove much. If they had killed Mrs Hunt, they could just as easily have done it together.
“We just wanted to explain,” Madeleine reiterated, looking as though she regretted the idea completely. “Mrs Hunt caused us a lot of hurt, but we did not kill her. It would be ridiculous for us to come all this way, to effect a reconciliation, and then to murder her.”
Clara said nothing, thinking that she could imagine many things more ridiculous. In some regards, travelling all this way to apparently forgive Mrs Hunt, could easily be a cover for murder. Very easily.
Madeleine Reeve was already walking away. Edwin Hope held Clara’s eye a moment longer, as if he was about to speak again, then he too turned and walked away. Clara thought their story curious, but not improbable, especially as Mrs Hunt had attempted to make amends with both the Wignells and Captain Blake in the exact same manner. It was starting to seem as if she had almost organised this charabanc tour as a means of making peace with her past. Had Mrs Hunt suddenly developed a conscience?
Clara went back to her sketching, wondering at how people continued to surprise her. And then again, how they did not…
Chapter Twenty
They were all very tired on the homeward journey. The temptation was to doze and Mr Wignell could not resist. His big head flopped back and he snored loudly. His wife clearly disapproved, but seemed unable to bring herself to rouse him. Clara sat next to Annie. Tommy had taken the seat behind them and, as there was no one to join him on it, had stretched out on it. He had his head wedged between the window and the back of the seat and was seemingly dozing.
Annie offered Clara a fruit flavoured boiled sweet from a packet she had bought back at their very first stop. Clara noted the name on the paper bag.
“I don’t suppose you saw tins of marzipan fruits in there?” she said.
“Oh yes,” Annie replied. “There was a little display of them.”
“And did you see anyone from the charabanc party buying one?”
Annie shook her head.
“Sorry, Clara, I wasn’t looking.”
“Of course you weren’t,” Clara smiled at her reassuringly. “No one had been harmed then.”
The charabanc took an awfully long time to reach the hotel and it was dusk when they arrived. The driver pulled the vehicle up into the parking space he had been designated, a short walk from the front door. Clara nudged Tommy awake and they all hopped off the charabanc, quite ready for dinner.
Clara noted that there was another car near the entrance to the hotel. It was a black thing, rather formal looking. It reminded her of the single police car the Brighton Constabulary possessed and used on special occasions – usually crimes which the inspector could not reach swiftly on foot or bicycle. The sight of a car was so unusual that Clara peered into the driver’s window as they walked past. She couldn’t see much inside, which made her wonder even more.
They strolled into the hotel foyer and at once came to a halt at the s
cene before them. Inspector Gateley was talking to Mr Stover, while policemen in uniform were loitering around, clearly waiting for an order to be given. On one of the foyer sofas a maid was seated, crying her eyes out, while another put her arm around her and tried to comfort her. Clara took in the spectacle in a glance. It was plain some calamity had occurred, and only recently judging by the maid’s demeanour. Clara was about to ask the obvious question when the lift gave off a very tinny ping, and the heavy metal gates were pulled back by a police officer inside. Then, rather awkwardly, for the space was not large, a stretcher was manhandled out of the lift. The body on it – for it could only be a body – was covered from head to foot by a white sheet.
Everyone paused to watch the body being processed out of the hotel. Mr Stover peered around Inspector Gateley, clearly agog. He was probably still in shock that such drama could affect his hotel. The maid looked up and gave a slight shriek. The body was clumsily manoeuvred out the door and towards a police mortuary carriage that was just pulling up outside. Clara decided explanations were in order.
“Mr Stover, who has just been carried out of your hotel?” she walked over to the hotel manager, completely ignoring the presence of Inspector Gateley.
“And here stands before me another of my woes!” Stover said as he saw Clara. “Perhaps, madam, you would care to leave this crime to the police?”
Clara turned her attention to Inspector Gately.
“Has there been a crime committed? I admit something must have attracted you all here, but are we talking murder?”
“Miss Fitzgerald, as you were not present today while the incident was unfurling, I have no interest in talking with you,” Inspector Gateley said with equal bluntness, and a slight hint of a smile.
